Follow Me (a poem)

1044231_3178855528390_823229546_nCome, follow me, walk by the sea

Throw your pride in the waves,

It can change the way you be–

How you behave.

Walk by me,

Like sounds in winter,

Calling through the leaves.

Like steps, mush in sand

Pace determines mind and

If silver radiant glowing water is secluding you


Lead not, not required

Don’t hold, hold onto dread

Follow endless

Follow me.
Change the way you be.


Time and Its Passage

The last time complied well,
Right before the tower fell.
Traveling without a mount,
Carrying pains more than one can count.
What is it to leave?
To think indifferent and believe.
Dark invaded the space,
Bringing an insecure face.
What is rewinding time?
To fix the renowned crime.
Nostalgic and memorizing your past,
Perfection disappearing fast.
Who can define life?
Not one below the golden knife.
Are there any who think like me?
Few stay unseen to me.

–Erin Servey

The Isle Journey

Along the waters of lovers’ past
I sailed around fantasy islands
Where birds floated high above the mast.

On one piece of land to which I stayed,
The wind told of a true history
A pair who once lived near where I laid.

Tale tells of a man who loved his wife
In old age, time stole her memory
So the man ended his and her life.

Since these two escaped all their pain,
No haunting occurred as I slept, cause
Neither of them wanted to remain

Some time later across a blue wave,
I learned of another tragic end
In empty palace, built by the brave.

What I heard here; a sound from the Heart
Was of a spouse building a castle,
Though his dreams would be soon torn apart.

This new home was a token of love,
To be given to his cherished wife,
She suddenly passed to the above.

Depressed as he was he stopped making,
His wife’s unfinished sanctuary
Never to return he left, aching.

Speechless voices cry, the journey now ends,
I thought, does life end this way, in bad fate?
All we can do is hope for good-my friend.

Bitter or Sweet? A poem

When poems taste like caramel,
They cover up the bitter.
Though they may be lovely,
Truth is only found in harsh taste.
When poems taste like caramel,
People munch, crunch and eat them up,
People who eat all the caramel,
They always end up
Because the only thing that’s full
Is their slowly expanding belly.
People who eat caramel poems,
Are eaten by depression,
Because depression feeds on empty minds.
When poems taste like caramel, people always end up sick
They acquire the short end of the stick.
Poems should not taste like caramel, but of bitter instead
For it is far better than a full belly, to have a full head.

The Night Circus: L’Endroit de Rêveurs

“The circus arrives without warning” is how Erin Morgenstern begins her enchanting tale of magicians, a contortionist, a timeless clock-maker, a man without a shadow, and a very lovely circus, in a book that feels as if magic itself crafted the mysterious words beneath every page. Senses come alive with smells of caramel apples and bonfires which permeate the reader’s endeavors: black and white and red repeated colors illustrate what a circus should be. Not too dark, not too light: with deep passion and excitement. Torn between emotions from smiling to sorrow, I remained charmed by the wondrous imagery that painted out scenes of midnight banquets–where I could taste the exotic food–and ballroom encounters, as well as fierce foreshadowing like feathers of a raven, pulling you into a winding labyrinth of beauty. The characters take you along with them into their circus life; people die sudden deaths and children are born. Never before have I read such a modern and fresh fairytale like this one, filled with such warm description that I wanted to be in every scene of the story; I wanted this dream of an adventure to be physically in front of me when, at the same time, I knew what it was to experience it. Any one who chooses to pick up this beautifully covered fable will be held captive by soft darkness so divine it emanates bright sparks of riveting pleasure so masterfully written, with suspense and compelling marvel, it’s my conclusion that only a brilliant magician and kindred dreamer could have created such a bitter-sweet dream brought to life.

“We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.”–Prospero, The Tempest

Jazz Emotion (a poem inspired by swing)


Jazz tapping the beat,

Can’t stay in my seat

Lights flashing around

Throw, jump off the ground,

Swish, swirl of dresses

The mien rids stresses

Fedoras in style

Smiles stay a while

Pulsing vibrates air

Flowing without care

Rap and tap your toes

Rhythm no one knows

Faster and faster,

Sticky sweet plaster

Chocolate warm feel

Rush of thrill so real

Spinning out of breath

Music far from death

Coming to an end

One, Two, Step, Three, end

Time to make your pose

Show off your last pose